Classic Poem

I hold in my hand an oak as great
As storm ever wrenched at or chopper fell;
Gnarled trunk, wide bough, and leafy freight
All closely packed in an acorn-shell.

My fingers clasp a harvest sheaf,
With heavy gold head and twisted zone;
In these kernels bare I see the leaf
And bending stalks of grain full grown.

I look out where the drifted snow
Lies cold and glist'ning 'neath the moon,
And know there sleeps, the crust below,
The blossom-browed, green-slippered June.

In yon dry pear-branch, stiff and cold,
A bud lies hid away from sight,
That 'neath the Spring's kiss shall unfold
Dawn-tinted blossoms, streaked with light.

The boughs that writhe in the sighing storm,
'Neath frowning skies and pelting sleet,
Shall droop with sunny burdens warm,
When long days with soft breezes meet.

I hold a home upon my knee,—
A laughing child with sunny eyes:
She grows a maiden fair to see;
And then a chastened matron wise.

A prince goes limping past my door,
But find him no keen critic can;
The neighbors call him old and poor:
But he's God's courtier, rough old man.

From out a life of work and care,
Of crosses heavy and burdens sore,
A soul may bloom to beauty rare
That shall not fade forevermore.